I am becoming a serious curmudgeon I can feel it. I see balloons and I do not think of the delight on a child's face (mainly because said child with balloons seems to care less and looks rather terrified at the loud possibility of a pop and a flick to tender skin; it is usually the mother dragging the clusters in her wake.)
Instead I think of how those balloons will soon be gagging a goose, strangling a trout or tangling in a tree limb. And it annoys me, and makes me fantasize about launching petitions to ban balloons and then I worry about how mothers will hate me because I am becoming a serious curmudgeon. What to do? Someone will always let go of that balloon.
And there seems no chance that they will ever be ...biodegradable.
And then I catch a glimpse of the sweet bravery of the deciduous azalea; I'm always amazed by the blossoms that unfurl boldly from tiny bare twigs. This one pinked out in front of the pinky stone of the Museum of Natural History. And my heart lifted, and soared past even the balloons.